I meet the other Bill and Elle on the street where Richie lives. His parents are away on some exotic excursion, so Richie has opened up the family home to his friends. Suchelegant surroundings tend to bring out the resentful side in average Joes like us, so weskulk up the walkway, kicking stones into the well-manicured grass. The other Bill’s deportment tells me that he’ll be liberating a fine trinket or two upon his leaving.

“What, is this supposed to be, classy or something?” he says, as he pauses to urinate against some expensive looking architectural stone that lines the porch. He walks towards the entrance still shaking his member, shoving it back into his pants as he pushes through the door.

The gathering is well attended, with groups of people reclining on fine leather couches,talking and laughing as they place their drinks on end tables that cost more than my car.Some prep school jack-ass is gesturing with his hand while clutching what looks like a crystalgoblet, amber liquid flying through the air and landing on the plush carpet.

We go into the kitchen and find Richie holding court amongst a group of his friends from college. He greets us warmly, but something in his demeanor is off. He fetches us drinks and introduces us to his colleagues. Hands are pumped and names exchanged true to his pals’ impeccable breeding, but there is a hint of contempt mixed in with the good manners. We’ve been branded as townies, near-do-wells, and this does not escape the other Bill’s notice, adding to his already foul mood.

There’s an odd smell in the air, a smell that I’m familiar with but cannot place. I scan the room for its source, and see a bottle of clear liquid and a pile of weed sitting on a table in the corner of the kitchen. A suspicious and wasted looking character is tending to the mixing of the two. Another couple of dirt-bag locals are looking over his shoulder, a separate clique from Rich’s sophisticated school buddies.

“What’s your man doing over there, Rich?”

“Oh, he’s just making up a batch of minty green.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A combination of formaldehyde and marijuana, with a sprig of mint! It’s a direct relative of what poor people and bikers call angel dust.”

Now I recognize the smell. The morgue—he must have filched the stuff.

“Fuck, Richie, you’re insane. That shit is supposed to be deadly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What, did you see a film strip in high school? I’ve smoked a shitload tonight, and I’m perfectly fine.”

No one in the kitchen looks perfectly fine. One of the more afflicted of the bunch is walking side-ways across the room, one arm out, neck at an unfortunate angle. Another isswatting away some kind of demon bug, visible at this point only to him.

"Are you really fine, Rich? Because your eyes are kinda' crossing when you talk."

"That's just from all the ghosts in the room. Hey, don't look at me that way.I know they're not real ghosts."

“Yeah, maybe they’re angels. From the dust!”

He fishes around in his top pocket, pulls out a couple of joints filled with the terrible drug. He waves the skinny numbers in my face and speaks in a voice that wanders up and down between octaves.

“Get a grip, weasel. You want to smoke some of this? It’s good, I’m telling you.”

“No thanks, Rich, I think I’ll stick to your Dad’s whisky.”

“That’s scotch, dumb-ass, but suit yourself.”

I wander into the living room and strike up a conversation with a guy named Cal, a robust, barrel-chested athlete, a dominate the room type. He emanates a subtle, nutty scent, some fine cologne that makes me want to lay my head on his chest.

"What school do you go to?" he asks.

"I don't. I've got a job."

"Yeah? What do you do?"

"Janitor. At a hospital. Same one that Richie worked at this summer."

He stiffens and scans the room for escape, my relevance at an end. His suspicions have been confirmed. I am from a different, inferior tribe, a people not worthy of his time. I contemplate ways that I could fuck with him, sensing that a juvenile andpetty gesture may be just what the doctor ordered. As I rack my brain for the very thing, Cal turns and walks across the room, careful to not ever look back.

There are chicks here, too, horrible, female version of these loud, preppytools. Pretty,sexless, cruel girls, tightly wound Protestants who are ready to carry on thetradition of wintering as if it’s summer, and demeaning the help while sucking thejuice right out of their skin. To touch these pinched and poisonous women is todamn your soul to hell. I can smell it in the very air around them, hear it in their shrill,demanding voices. Money can surely buy more happiness than this. I desire every woman Imeet at least a little, but when it comes to these chicks I’d rather dip my cockin glue.

The other Bill and Elle are nowhere to be seen, so I walk around and explore thehouse. I traipse through the endless rooms one by one, each appointed with elegant furniture and ethnic babbles and just the finest layer of dust. I get the feeling that a lot of these rooms are seldom used or even visited, which makes me feel sad and lonely and finally bored.

I go back to the bar and find that bottle of scotch. I refill my glass three-quarters of the way up, and some Fred Perry wearing jerk-off, interchangeable with Cal, shoots me a look and says, “that’s two finger scotch, sport.”

“Well, here’s one more finger, dick,” I say, flipping him a great, big bird. One of his cronies laugh, and Fred Perry turns and open-hands him across the face.

Alright, here we go, I think, but the kid just stands there and rubs his cheek. That was mean, rich person mean, but there seems to be some kind of pecking order among these a-holes. Could these guys have gone to boarding school and been buggered by the upper classmen, only to turn around and bugger the incoming twerps themselves? I’m dying to ask, but it’s a closed cast, surely, and if they treat each other like that, what thefuck would they do to me? I beat it through the foyer and up the stairs.

I amble down a hallway on the second floor. The master bedroom is the trove, and I would love to find the other Bill so he could join the hunt. There’s a door opened a crack so I peer inside. Too dark to see, but I can hear some sort of activity. I push through with my shoulder, and light from the hallway fills the room. I see Elle sitting on the bed and Richie before her, kneeling, kissing her. Elle’s shirt is open and Richie’s hand is on her exposed breast, the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He slowly twists and Elle moans and so do I. We’re all on the same page.

“Jesus, you little pervert, what the fuck are you doing? Don’t you knock orsomething? Hey, is your wang out?” says Richie.

“No, you high bastard. I just came in, like, by accident. Hey, Elle, c’mere. You have a phone call.”

There is, of course, no phone call for Elle, but the sooner she leaves that room the better, this night being far too drug-weird for that sort of intrigue. Rich does not remove his hand from her breast, but kicks the door shut, foiling my clever ruse and preventing me from watching him further tweak her dark nipples. As the door swings toward me,I catch a glimpse of Elle lying back on the bed, eyes half closed. I jump so as not to get wacked, and in the process spill most of my drink.

There's not much more for me to do, so I put my ear to the wood and further monitor this languorous seduction. There is no audible clamor, so, unsatisfied, I return to my search for the master bedroom and the other Bill.

The hall ends with a set of double doors, leading to the big pay-off, my grail fortonight, mom and dad's grand bedroom. I peek inside and see stuff strewn across the floor and hanging from lamps. There is rummaging in the deep closets, and soon the other Bill appears, wearing a tuxedo jacket and no pants.

"It's about time you got here. I'm gonna' need some help. We gotta' bring this stuff out to your car. We're taking all of it. This shit is nice."

"You think Rich is just gonna' let us load all his parents possessions into my fuckin’ car?"

He exits the closet and comes toward me, silk scarves or some shit tangled around his ankles.

"He won't even know. He's been smoking minty green all night. His mind is gone, cuz. I had a taste myself, so I know. I might have some issues, too."

"Jesus, like what?"

"Well, every once in a while I feel like I'm in hell, flames and all, but it only lasts a minute. And I got a boner that won't go away."

I’ve been trying not to look, but it’s hard to ignore his jostling rod, in motion only inches from my thigh. He leans against a dresser and his member droops slightly towards the floor.

He walks toward the door, but I block his path. I instruct him to go to the closet and find some pants, mentioning that not one person downstairs has their dick out.

"Fuck it, man, Rich's friends are pussies, that’s why they hide their nasty pegs. But out of respect for your delicate nature, I'll put on a nightgown."

While he's choosing his wrap, I sneak out the door and go back to the room where I found Elle and Richie getting cozy. It's empty. Hopefully the whole thing has blown over and they’ve rejoined the gang down below. There's no telling how the other Bill would react to their coupling in his altered state.

He and I meet on the stairs and go back to the main party, him looking surprisingly stylish in his sleek ladies dressing gown. He’s selected one that highlights his flowing locks, and seems confident that he’s chosen well. I refill my drink and scan the room. Minty green and expensive booze have worked their magic enough so that Rich's friends have dropped their guard, and the other Bill's unusual garb passes without comment.

"Hey man, that guy there. He snubbed me before. Guess he don't like janitors," I tell theother Bill, pointing at Cal, hoping to stir up a little shit.

"Oh, really? Well, I can't say as I blame him, but I'm offended on your behalf,” he replies. "And that yellow polo shirt is just hideous. He should go up to dad's closet and pick-out a jacket. I'm willing to let him have one for a decent price."

He eyes the guy for a few minutes more, then surveys the surroundings.

"I’m not prepared for a fuck-about in such close quarters. Come with me.”

We go outside and walk down the aisle of cars. The other Bill pauses at a dark green sports car, flips open the gas cap and takes a wizz into the opening.

“C’mon, weasel, get your wick out.”

As I’m dribbling some pee into the tank, the other Bill scratches the words Urine The Money across the door with his key.

“Let’s beat it,” he says, and we hurry towards my ride.

“How did you know which car was his?”

“Which car was whose?”

We sit on my hood and look back at the house. The party is in full swing, noise and music and people spilling out into the night. Neither of us makes a move to go back in.

“Where the fuck is Elle, anyway?” he asks.

“I dunno’, man.”

“I got the feeling Rich was tryin’ to insert his pencil. Fuckin’ worm.”

“Why do ya’ think that?’

“’Cause he’s been layin’ it on thick, lately. Believe me, he wouldn’t be wasting his time if he didn’t want in. I can smell it on him—he’s got the urge.”

I think about Richie with his hand on Elle’s tit. She’s the most beautiful girl around, so of course he feels with-in his rights. Rich’s life has been a great big yes. Still, I’m keeping that little scene in the bedroom to myself.

“You have no idea, weasel. But it’s not all roses. She has the potential to bend a person’s mind.”

He doesn’t say anything further, just wraps his gown more tightly around him and stares at the house. I finally ask him what he means.

“She’s complex, kid, maybe ‘cause she can afford to be. It’s the price attached to that kind of beauty. There’s always a cost.”

I again ponder their dalliance and remark,“Well, whatever, man. I just hope she makesRichie pay.”

“What’s it to you, weasel?”

“It’s nothin’ to me.”

“Yeah, right. I get the picture. I’m gonna’ keep a lazy eye on you.”

He lays back on the hood of my car and falls instantly asleep, a column of stonepushing up his dress. A silent tribute to all mankind, perhaps, or just a monument to the moon , which shines brightly in the sky. I lean back, too, and think of Elle, and how I might erect amonument of my own.

She is the very apex of feminine allure, yet gives herself to infantile blowhards, nearlygrown men who cannot look past their own shallow needs. I am a child, but I will come alive in her service. I will give her room to flower, and will flower in kind because of it. Iwill deny her nothing as I wait for my inevitable destruction.